The Poet

The proud and ecstatic poet on lofty ground
Stands . . . enthralled by diamonds waltzing on high.
Saucy hair, bewitched by the wind . . .
This poet vain, sings and sighs.
Beneath him, a silver thread zigzagging flows
Until engulfed in mother's fold.
His exalted spirit treasures this rhapsody.
His is the universe; his to hold.
Silhouetted against the moon appears a flaming light
In frightful wonder he gasps, "wha . . wha . . . what?"
"Be not afraid," he hears a whispered song.
"'Tis He, Who bestows to all His love!"
The poet meekly says, "Never more
Will I exult myself a lore!"
And humbly kneels upon the shore
Of Truth . . . in penitent robe,
Now a beggar, for Eternal Hope!

by Isabel Neidig

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